The North Sea.
A tiny island battered by furious winds and towering waves.
Calling it an island was generous—it was more like a slightly oversized reef, barely large enough to fit a modest house. And yet, if someone were somehow protected by a miracle or an Auror detail and managed to slip past the countless wards and obstacles to set foot upon it, they would be horrified to discover that this place concealed a world within a world—
The instant one stepped onto the island, the patch of rock no bigger than a house would suddenly expand countless times over. Towering walls, a broad square, a grim fortress, and a chaotic graveyard would appear like phantoms out of thin air. At the same time, a group of creatures far more terrifying than ghosts would close in, greeting the intruder in ways befitting their identity…
This was Azkaban—the only wizarding prison in Britain, a place that struck fear into the hearts of countless witches and wizards.
Yet no matter how terrifying, oppressive, or deadly the rumors surrounding it might be, Azkaban was still a prison—and Britain's only one at that. Which meant that not all inmates were the same. Crimes varied in severity, sentences in length, and accordingly so did their placement, cell conditions, and even how frequently Dementors were allowed to feed on their happiness.
At least in the outer sections reserved for lesser crimes, life was better than most people imagined—four-person cells, three meals a day consisting of hot mashed potatoes and bread, regular access to the exercise yard, Dementor patrols only once every two days, strict hygiene standards to prevent disease, and even small amounts of cheering potion.
To be honest, it wasn't much different from an ordinary Muggle prison.
Which was why the most horrifying rumors always described the deepest reaches of Azkaban—yet outsiders mistakenly believed the entire prison to be that hell.
But if someone truly went to see the source of those rumors for themselves, they would realize with what little sanity they had left—
The rumors were still too kind.
Dementors infested every corner of the filthy, stinking cells. Windowless walls sealed off all sunlight and fresh air, while mold spread through the damp atmosphere, making it feel as though a single breath would let it grow inside one's lungs. Those imprisoned here would never see daylight again. Food and water barely sustained life. And if one fell ill… or died…
They would leave behind nothing but a few pale bones, a grim set of building blocks for the next occupant to pass the time with.
Darkness, filth, and Dementors together forged a true hell within this confined space.
And yet, today, something about this hell was different.
Amid the wails of despair, a wild, unrestrained laugh rang out—so jarring it was as though part of hell had decided to celebrate a holiday.
"Hahahahaha… well done! Well done!"
Sirius Black, with a body gaunt beyond recognition, was laughing with an exuberance utterly at odds with his appearance.
"Look at him—just look at him now! Do you remember what you said to me last year, my dear cousin?"
"Oh, you trash, you have no idea how great the Dark Lord is~~"
He pitched his voice high, theatrically mimicking a crazed woman, complete with exaggerated gestures.
"This little seal could never hold the Master! The Master is immortal! Dumbledore, that old bastard, can't pry into the Master's secrets at all—he can only drag things out pathetically, waiting for destruction in fear~~"
"And then—pffft, hahahahaha!"
Sirius finally broke, laughing uncontrollably as he waved the newspaper in his hand at the twisted face in the opposite cell.
"Your great master's secret is gone! Hahahaha!"
"A Dark artifact that can corrupt minds and carries Voldemort's memories… that's a Horcrux, isn't it?!"
"And now that diary's in Dumbledore's hands. Once he points his wand at it and mutters a few words, what do you think will happen to your magnificent master?"
Across from him, Bellatrix Lestrange stared coldly, a faint, disdainful sneer curling her lips.
This idiot.
She didn't say it aloud.
Laugh while you can. See how long it lasts… You really think the Dark Lord has only one Horcrux?
The true trump card—I personally placed it in the most secure vault in Gringotts. You and Dumbledore, with your pitiful little minds, wouldn't even dream of it… When you think the Dark Lord is dead and let your guard down—that will be the perfect moment for his return.
"Hahahaha… cough, cough…"
Seeing no reaction from the person he was trying to provoke, Sirius gradually laughed himself out. His severely malnourished body couldn't sustain such exertion for long.
When the laughter finally faded, he rolled onto his side, no longer looking at those snake-like eyes. Instead, he picked up the newspaper again and smiled foolishly at one of the photographs.
"Well done, Harry. Truly well done… You avenged your parents—you know that?"
"James, look at him. Look at your son. He looks so much like you… and he's a Seeker too…"
"And he's even better than you ever were. Even Snivellus respects him!"
Sirius tried to grin again, but found his face numb. In the end, he let the expression fade, gazing gently at the familiar face in the photograph.
Ever since Voldemort had been captured the previous year, the Hit Wizards and Aurors stationed at Azkaban—desperate to relieve their boredom—had taken to loudly reading newspaper reports to the Death Eaters in the deepest cells. They even handed out copies, forcing them to stare at the despairing face trapped in a bottle.
The results were spectacular. Several of the once-composed Death Eaters went mad that very day.
The only thing that puzzled the guards was the Dark Lord's so-called First Lieutenant—Sirius Black.
Why was he laughing so happily?
They watched him nervously for a long time, found nothing unusual, and eventually concluded that he must have gone mad as well—laughing hysterically to express grief.
So, hoping to drive the troublesome Death Eaters insane faster—or provoke an escape attempt that would justify a Dementor's Kiss—they stockpiled newspapers. Once the full truth about Voldemort had been revealed, they dumped the information on the Death Eaters all at once.
And thus, the scene from earlier was born.
"Let's see… anything else about Harry…"
Sirius skimmed the paper at lightning speed, searching the photographs for that familiar face.
"Snivellus… he actually gets to be a professor? Even worked undercover for Dumbledore? Hmph. That fits his slimy nature… fine, I'll insult him two times fewer today, for Harry's sake."
"Hagrid cleared of all charges? That's great. Hope the motorbike I gave him's still alright…"
"Ken… what kind of nonsense is that, not even a full name. Skip, skip."
"Harry Potter and his friends… there! That's it!"
His eyes lit up as he read eagerly, unconsciously pressing the newspaper to his chest as though it were warm.
"Weasley… Arthur's son, right? He became friends with Harry? That's wonderful…"
He stared at the photograph. James's son wore a nervous, awkward smile. Beside him stood two other children: a girl with slightly prominent front teeth—said to be a Muggle-born top student like Lily once was, though not nearly as pretty—and a red-haired, freckle-faced boy who was clearly Arthur's son.
"He does look the part."
Sirius studied Ron's face.
"Hope he avoids his father's fate and keeps his hair…"
"Hmm, he even keeps a rat? Tch, an eyesore…"
"Wait—?!"
(End of Chapter)